Poems

by Timothy Riordan

Anonymous Caller

That silence
when you pick up the phone
and say hello,
but nobody answers.
Yet you know someone is there
listening to you
waiting for them to speak.
You say hello again;
and still no reply
or dial tone either.
Angry, you hang up.
This is the third time this week,
three days in a row.
Except for the other times
you thought it might be a computer
or a caller confused by a wrong number,
or someone waiting to clear his throat,
unable to speak.
But obviously not.
No, it’s another shadow
lurking in the dark,
whose outline you can all but see,
an impression gained through the ear.
You can practically hear the breathing,
feel the restraint,
a deliberate attempt to leave you wondering,

Do I know this fellow?

For surely it’s a male,
hoping a female would answer
so he could breathe obscenities,
whisper his spittle in her ear.

Surely it’s no one I know,
surely not a friend.
Had better be a random caller.
Had better be,
better be….

The Calling of Bears
(a news item)

It wasn’t a great distance
that divided them by fence.
It was a matter of signals,
synapses, crossed wires.
A leap of faith
that companions share
purpose in travel.
So it was with them,
or so it seemed with him
In his mind, he had journeyed
the Great Northwest; had been to Alaska
in his dreams; salmon fishing
in Canada. His thoughts
overflowed with their feats,
stories of strength gone berserk:
to rip apart a human being,
to conquer in battle like Achilles,
Attila, or Charles Martel –
then return triumphant
through the gate of peace.
It was with confidence, therefore,
he leapt the railing, crossed over
to the territory of civilized giants.
After all, the kodiak and grizzly were calling him,
welcoming him with open arms.
They waved, returned his greeting;
reached out toward him, he lived to tell.
Embraced him in a bone-crushing hug,
one hand and arm on their trophy.